Participants:
| Scene Title | Human Enough |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Human enough to make mistakes, in any case. Deckard goes to Pastor Sumter's home to discover he's not as dead as was implied. |
| Date | July 31, 2009 |
Greenwich Village — Joseph's Apartment
It's five o'clock and all is well. Unless you're Joseph. Or Ashley. But presumably nobody here knows about that turn of events, yet.
Deckard strikes a tall figure outside the numbered flat of Joseph's door, more clean cut than the pastor has ever seen him with grizzled hair and beard growth both buzzed down into a close, uniform bristle. Too thuggish to be particularly friendly or inviting, but one step up over homeless. The white of his dress shirt is clean. The undershirt beneath that is clean. His jeans and boots are — dusty. 2/4 isn't bad though, considering the source and the hour and the fact that he didn't think to strip the holster off the right side of his belt or ditch the revolver jutting blunt away from its sit against his hip. Good thing the fuzz has already boogied on back to the station or this would probably be a shorter meeting than either of them was hoping for.
Three sharp raps sound out against the door while he squints at his watch and then blearily down the hallway. Laaate. Even for him.
Late enough that most people should be asleep, and Joseph isn't. Which isn't to say he's really awake, either, groggily attempting to decompress, sprawled upon the sofa with a teatowel wrapped around a mess of ice cubes being fidgeted with and intermittently applied to his face. It's been a long few hours, beginning with a great big Newfoundland licking at his ear, followed by the police at his door, ended— here. The sharp knocks against the door have him giving a full-bodied start, heart skipping, before sinking back into stillness and silence.
He should be asleep, so technically he could continue to pretend to be. However, despite himself, Joseph moves to set his feet down on the carpet, carefully placing the makeshift icepack onto the coffee table. His voice is rough and frayed at the edges, but loud enough to call, "Who is it?"
Not that intruders looking to kick the crap out of you would be so inclined to knock, or return within mere hours. This alone has Joseph getting to his feet properly, the sounds of him shuffling over enough to be heard across the barrier of wood.
"Singing telegram," Deckard's voice roughs dull through the wood, like gravel over dirt. Not really because it's frayed. Just. Because it always sounds that way at five in the morning. Most other times, too.
"Open the door."
He's polite enough to eliminate the 'fucking' in light of the cause for his being here, but there's a hint of a roll in the clear blue of his eyes when he tips his head back to squint at the ceiling. Having friends is a pain in the ass.
There's hesitation enough to justify the eye rolling, but Joseph doesn't need to be told twice. Resigned, there's a rattle of the lock chain being undone, the regular lock twisted open, and the door opened with a moderately impatient jerk, Joseph already backing up by the time it swings open via more momentum than the pastor's hands. A slightly too big t-shirt hangs off his torso, untucked over jeans, feet bare against the carpet, and hair combed only this his hands.
And, naturally, the rosy shadows of fresh bruises of someone kicked in the head at least twice, worn about as obviously as weariness and stale fear, anger in equal measures. Overall, Pastor Sumter could be having a better night. Defense and general guardedness isn't quick to shake from his posture, and there's more confusion in black eyes than welcome.
"How did— um. Come in."
Deckard's long face tilts down in time to level with the appearance of Joseph's battered mug when it appears through the open crack of the door. He's critical in his automatic inspection of bruises to be — spectacularly healthy in return. There's nothing wrong with him. Wiry hair and bristled beard neat, weight average, hollows only where they should be around his eyes and faint along the slant of his narrow jaw. "Abby called me in a panic. Said you were hurt."
The chill scrape of his eyes navigates from rumpled hair to oversized t-shirt in a more skeptical pass before he steps in sideways after the invitation to give the apartment beyond the same kind of looking over. "From the sound of things I figured you'd be closer to death."
A look up and down at the other man shows Joseph giving much the same assessment, if less pointed. Just checking. His brow is tensed into confusion that isn't ebbing away any time soon, a hand coming up to rub his eye, regretting, slowly, deciding not to lie about being asleep. "No, I'm— " 'Fine', is also a lie, but in the grand scheme of things it's probably not so off the truth. "I'm alright." He gives a vague hand wave meant to indicate that Flint should shut the door, Joseph wandering further inside.
There's a lamp missing. Otherwise, he had tried to clear up, the apartment restored to something resembling sanity and neatness. Alicia is absent from the immediate area, but there's no bullets in the wall, no sign of true scuffle. For all the world, Joseph could have just fallen down some stairs.
"Abigail called you," he states, weary bewilderment in his voice, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. And annoyance is audible aslo, not bothering to shelve that particular sentiment as he adds, "She called the police, too. I don't even know how she— what did she say?"
"I dunno. She was crying a lot. Said she wanted to come home." The absent lamp is noted with a twitch of his brows, as if he's not sure if there was something there before or not, and Deckard turns to push the door closed behind himself. He's slow to turn the lock, thumb brushing over the chain as if in search of some sign of forced entry before he turns to follow Joseph deeper into the apartment. Not headed anywhere specific, he stops before he's made it more than a few feet and stands like a fence post transposed randomly into the merge of entry and living area. "I think she's there with Victor."
Dismay is a subtle thing in the fuzzy grey lines around Deckard's mouth and in the way his voice hushes out of its usual coarse drone. It may also have something to do with why his recollection of details re: exactly what Abby had to say about this ordeal is a little sketchy.
"I told her to stay there."
Anguish, quite predictably, makes a subtle appearance on Joseph's face, eyes blinking rapidly and forgetting to invite Deckard or even himself to sit down. It would be awkward if he cared more, lingering as the other man does in the middle of the apartment, hands nervously wringing together now. "I didn't call her," Joseph states, getting to the heart of it - skipping over, even, the dismay Deckard only briefly shows and the fact that Abigail is somewhere safe. It is, after all, 5 am. "I didn't— I haven't told anyone about this, I was going to…"
Whatever it was he was going to do shall remain a mystery, kept nowhere along with every other unfinished sentence. His arms wrap defensively around his midsection, shoulders tight beneath the loose cotton of his shirt. "He must have done it. He knew her name, he must have called her."
There's a twist of his arm to check the watch that isn't there, Joseph next glancing towards the clock on the wall, mouth pulling into a frown to see the hour, and lets out a sigh. Back to wringing his hands. "I made a mistake, somewhere. Talked to the wrong person, I don't know. He was in my apartment, Flint, waiting for me." Composure coming apart at the edges, Joseph tries to put nervousness, overtired energy in pacing, although needless movement isn't completely natural for him, stilted steps. "Don't know who, but he— he knew things. About Teo, and you. The Ferry."
"Someone called her," Deckard observes unhelpfully and without feeling, thoughts recollected in tandem with a reach for the nearest bone white religious figurine. He turns it over in his hands like a bit of wood, with little or no regard for the craftsmanship or design worked into sweeping robes and clasped hands. "She's in Louisiana."
He must have done it. He knew her name. Flint looks up from the smooth curves of the figurine's face, brows adopting a dubious lift after thoughts spoken aloud and hand wringing and nervous glances. It's not long before he reaches to take up a second figurine in his free hand. Like a cat knocking things off a dresser. Just Because. Meanwhile this is starting to sound kind of serious.
"…Are you sure?" This is maybe why Deckard doesn't tend to be the Ferry's first choice of On Scene Investigator when there's a distressed person around who doesn't actually need to be moved with a quickness. There's a pause. One of the figures flips over once over his left hand, end over end, like the bluntest, most devout knife in history. "Why would he call her?"
"I don't know," Joseph mutters, despondently. "And no, I'm not sure— not of anything. But my phone was right here and I don't know who else would have even known to do anything…" The tide of fretting wells up, breaks, disperses, and withdrawing again, leaving Joseph bereft of rising anxiety before it can begin. It's exhausting, human emotion, and Joseph is having enough of it for the two of them. Still, he manages, as ever, to put a lid on it, wearing rubbing his bruised face for a moment, before shaking his head, briskly.
Whatever fine okay. Paranoid. He's being paranoid. "I'll call her tomorrow. Let her know I'm okay," he states, finally looking back at Deckard, and outside of his personal sphere of worry and concern— to fix his gaze over where Deckard is toying with the religious figurines. There's the sound of an aborted protest at the back of Joseph's throat, before he gives up while he's ahead. Ish.
"Just some of the stuff he said. 'bout— hunting people down… I'm glad she's in Louisiana," Joseph stutters out with a nervous chuckle. "He put my dog down with a tranq, I mean— he knew stuff, and I ain't never seen 'im before." And this is where he hooks his gaze back on Deckard, imploring and awaiting some sort of instruction, reassurance, and other things that don't technically make their way out of Flint's mouth on a regular basis.
"Christ," is all Deckard can think to mutter once static silence has room to flood in after the raised staff of Joseph's yammering anxiety. Not exceptionally comforting or — appropriate. And Joseph is looking at him in a way he has seen people look at him more and more lately, which would be more okay if there was some kind of inner solidification of confidence or usefulness or intelligence that actually correlated with the perception that he is capable of doing anything about…anything. Meta aside, he looks dimly lost and uncomfortable and does not have anything immediately reassuring to say. In fact, he looks back to the space where the lamp was when he reaches to replace one of the figurines. Avoidant.
"I'll get you in contact with…Teo. Or Grace. Maybe the guy has some kind of established MO…"
It's a longshot, he knows. The corners of his mouth tug down a little further while he examines his remaining figurine. "You can stay at my place for a while if you want to pack up a couple of bags. Extra bedrooms."
Honestly? It seems good enough, Joseph nodding to Deckard's words and letting a sigh escape him. At the very least, it seems like a comfort that someone else knows, now, that whatever had happened here is a burden to be shared, even if Deckard intends to shrug it in Teo or Grace's direction. Makes the room seem less small and the world seem less big. So, he nods.
Okay. And then, the offer doesn't inspire an immediate answer, Joseph looking towards where the statuettes are put back into place. Most perpetually single males collect action figures. "That would— you sure? I mean I'd rather not stay here anyway, if…" Apology and not wishing to be obtrusive quickly disappears. Deckard spent a few days leaking on Joseph's couch, once. So the pastor nods. "Alright. Gimme a few."
His foot falls are next to soundless against the carpet as he heads for his room, shoulders still hunched beneath his shirt. Joseph thinks to add, "thanks," over his shoulder as he goes.
"Yeah." He's sure. Not like they'll have to share a bed or anything. And as ineffective as Deckard might be as a source of comfort and reassurance through words and hugs, he is unfalteringly laid back about the whole ordeal. Every day it gets harder to shock him with bad news.
This is probably not a good thing, actually.
He flips the remaining figurine over again. Tries to look up its skirts, to little avail. Not even x-ray vision would help him here — they are exactly as bland as they outwardly appear.
The dog is asleep, being the sane half of this partnership. Need to get the neighbour to feed her, take her in if possible. All things he can do in the morning via phonecalls and earnest please's. The trivial worries in the midst of all the bigger ones that take the form of masks, twinging bruises and photographs of terrorists with fold lines running through the nose. Joseph's hands are steady, no senseless or even overtired trembling as he packs for a night or two.
He's quick to emerge - despite everything, it doesn't seem sensible to allow Deckard to have an awful lot of time on his hands while in someone else's home. Joseph's thrown a jacket over his shirt, and shoes on his feet. Wired, somewhat, from a lack of sleep, and he darts a look towards Deckard before giving a chin up of a nod, presenting a question;
"Are you here 'cause Abby told you to come check whatever's got her upset, or 'cause you were worried?" The anxiety's been shed in favour of scattered interest, as if this were a source of interest than emotional investment. He's meanwhile adjusting the strap of his backpack over his shoulder as he starts of the door, turning off the kitchen light as he goes. The Bibles can stay where they are.
Deckard hasn't managed to do much damage in the span of time it takes Joseph to pack everything up and reappear again, but there is a certain inexplicable haste to the speed with which he reaches to fumble the second figurine back up into place. He hasn't moved much otherwise, still haunting the no man's land close to the murky light of the entry. The way shadows pool there makes him look larger than he is. It also places emphasis on the fact that his ears stick out without crazy person hair to make up the difference.
Not really wired so much as he's dragging after staying up only a few hours later than his usual bedtime, he looks at Joseph's shoes before anything else, perhaps oddly. So long as they're something he can run in if he needs to.
Then there's the question and he's forced to actually like, think. About it. His mouth opens ahead of an automatic answer, then closes. His brow hoods, knits, furrows…eases out of automatic tension into softer bafflement while his brain tries to process relevant thought and feeling. All of that and he still comes up with a mild, "I dunno. She said something happened. …So." Apparently not a lot of thinking went into it one way or another is basically the answer he's fishing for, here.
Automatic reactions matter too, although not enough, evidently, for Joseph to pursue. Fuzzy eyebrows knit together a little at the taciturn answer, and it's certainly not a surprise. There's a glint of a shiny something - the tiny gold crucifix on the fine chain around his neck has fallen loose to rest high against the chest, stark against the pale blue of his shirt. Sneakers, evidently, are what he's chosen to put on his feet, vaguely pragmatic. "So," Joseph agrees, and leaves whatever 'thank you' he had, for either answer, back where he had already tossed it flippantly towards Flint several minutes ago.
A glance back towards the apartment, before he flicks off the last light, flooding it once more in angles of grey and black shadows, making the small Greenwich Village apartment seem that much bigger. "After you."
Sneakers are probably okay. … Deckard looks at them again, measures and decides not to say anything. He'll — take a shortcut. To cut down on the odds of some guy with a tranquilizer gun dropping down on the roof of their care while they're driving. Christ, who knows?
He nods once, head ducked against darkness he can't see through on his way to turning back for the door. Chain released, locked flipped over, he lets himself out into the warm lighting of the hall beyond and makes for the staircase he came in through, assuming Joseph will follow.
Old Lucy's: Upstairs
This apartment is nice looking, spacious. There is a big TV in the living room with a DVD player on a shelf with a few movies. A kitchen is connected to living room and separated by an island of counters. Down the hall is a bathroom and then three other doors, each different bedrooms. The flooring is dark and hard wood, there are a few paintings around the place and the apartment overall smells of cinnamon and old spices.
Deckard's apartment, once Isabelle's, is definitely fit for someone pulling in money off a bar they own rather than a couple hundred bucks here and there for Saturday night specials and sawed off shotguns. The dark wood flooring is warm and immaculate. So are the furnishings. The perpetual whiskey stink Deckard survives in has only just begun to sink in through the more cinnamony scent of the place's prior owner, and although there are boxes stacked here and there containing her unclaimed belongings, for the most part, there just — isn't much around. A dirty pair of jeans Flint kicked out've the way when they came in, an empty bottle of tequila standing up straight on the floor in front of the TV.
That was two hours ago.
Since then, the sound of conversation and then eventually the sound of glass against wood in general clinks of fills and then refills has quietly filled the room. There's a bottle of amber liquid an arm's reach away, a low serving in the crystal glass that Joseph currently has his fingers spidered over, chin resting in his other hand, elbow balanced against the table. Anxiety, a known demon of his own that has such a tendency to wrap hot wires through his chest, has completely vanished into a sort of vague haziness.
It feels nice. Familiar. It's also dawn, the sunlight starting to filter in through the windows. "Hey— " Hey. There's a blink, two blinks, and then, "What day is it?" He quickly glances at a watch he'd put on when he'd gone to leave his apartment. It, of course, only shows the hourly time rather than the date.
If it's Sunday, he may simply crawl under the bed and never leave.
"It's Saturday." Deckard started at the kitchen table. Now he's on the couch some ten or fifteen feet away, sprawled clear along its length with one socked foot propped up on the arm rest facing Joseph and the other flat down against the wood of the floor. Dress shirt unbuttoned and loose over the bleach white of a Raquelle-supplied undershirt, he has his own half-empty bottle braced against a bony hip and a glass balanced on his chest — head and shoulders propped up agains the opposite arm rest so he can watch Joseph blink and fidgit and panic about the date.
The TV is on mute in the background, currently host to a news program painting out today's weather in colors so bright they make Flint's eyes hurt when he looks at them. "Yesterday was Friday. You worry a lot." In stark contrast, current company takes a long breath to steady his hands while he sets to topping himself neatly off again.
"Right." Friday. Saturday. The flare of guilt at the mention of the idea of his schedule for the Guiding Light is doused with some speed with a smooth sip of whiskey, Joseph sitting back in his chair and bringing up his hand to rub over his face. His fingertips touch the bruises that grace his temple, then blacker and bluer at his cheek, doesn't draw nearly the wince it might have before.
There's a creak of wood against wood as he angles his chair back from the table, getting comfortable and letting out a sigh, casting a look towards Deckard. "Mmf," is the pastor's reply at first. "Yeah. 's kinda— yeah. A thing. Everyone's got one. I feel like I've been awake for— more'n just tonight."
He's also drunk, that mmmight have something to do with supposed temporal displacement. A foot comes up to rest against the edge of the opposite, vacated chair, posture slouched, relaxed.
Deckard's about as relaxed as he gets. Even the unconscious tension that has a tendency to lodge in the steel wiring in his neck has slackened enough for him to tip his head back over the couch arm once he's finished pouring and sipped, adam's apple bared knobby and stubbled at the ceiling. His toes curl and flex. If he could spend every early morning drunk out of his mind on the couch, maybe life wouldn't be so bad.
The creeping warmth of it all slows at his breathing and drowses at his eyes, but he's far from falling asleep and his grip on the bottle is reasonably secure. Whenever it starts to tilt like it might not be he recalls himself and rights it again. "Ffff." Ffff.
"Teo'll get it figured out. Well." He tips a brow up, eyes closed against a fresh jot of reds and yellows across the TV screen, "Maybe. I dunno. He would've before. Maybe that still counts."
"I…" Joseph's offer of doubt dies on his tongue, foggy mind creeping back towards the shadowed scene back in his apartment, the crumpled photograph and the words the accompany it. "I hope so," he settles on, going for optimism instead. Did you know he killed policemen? The last of this round's whiskey is downed, and Joseph allows the burning of its passage to cool first, eyes sinking shut. It isn't a bad way to start the day, really.
Really! "I'm kind've— " A vague gesture with his glass, before Joseph is reeeaching towards the whiskey bottle, the neck of it bumping heavily against the rim of the glass he he tops up. Does it fast and painless. "I'm kind've out of my depth on this one, I guess. You know what he called us?"
"…S'at…Teo?" Deckard's brain is having a little trouble changing tracks. Evidently. Even so, he sounds disinterested in what Teo might call them. Trouble changing tracks might have to do with the fact that he's distracted with something else and not paying tremendous amounts of attention to where this conversation is headed. The flat of his chest lifts around another sigh; he raises his head to drag another swallow off the edge of his glass. The television flashes on at a cheerful remove.
"Should probably get used to it. If you're planning on sticking with us, I mean. Shit you wouldn't even…wouldn't even inmagine. Imagine. Is happening. Except…it is. People are so angry. I'm glad you came over."
Joseph opens his mouth to protest— not Teo— but Flint is speaking and also he has a refilled drink. A slower sip, this time. It's been a long time. He's since shed his jacket in the past couple of hours, and his shoes have also disappeared somewhere, white and grey socks coming to rest again against the floor. "I can imagine," he corrects, the hand holding his glass raising up, index finger out in a point. "I can believe it, anyway. I just— I mean.
"I wasn't talkin' about Teo. Him, I mean, an' not just him— what all of 'em call people like us. The ones that— you know. They call us animals," was the point he was trying to fumble his way towards. "Like we're not human. But yeah. It's…"
The glass rotates between his hands, elbows coming to rest against his knees. "I'm glad I came over too."
There are a pair of boots at the Joseph-facing side of the couch. Western, not combat — one tilted over onto its side and the other upright where they landed one fifteen minutes after the other some time ago. "Oh." The face kicking guy in the mask. "Yeah. That guy." That guy calls them animals.
Rather nonchalant in the face of what might be considered a pretty crippling undercut of one's standing in the world, Deckard lifts his brows philosophically at his whiskey bottle. There's a slump at his shoulder, acknowledging perhaps that it wasn't a very nice thing for him to say without directly protesting its accuracy. It's a while before he says anything, actually, which is a blessing in diguise, if only because of what he does say when he opens his mouth.
"Do you think we're human? Really…human, I mean. With all the…bells and. Bells."
On the thickness of skins. Joseph vaguely wishes he could borrow some. Danko's words scrape his nerves, although distant, now, combating the protective warmth of alcohol that he cradles close. There's a spark of life, however, at the question— whether or not its offensive, despite the source, doesn't so much as factor in as much as the philosophy it represents. It's easy for a student of religion to sink claws into.
Or at least, it is when they are sober. "Yeah," Joseph says, simply. "We are. We're a damned sight more human than— " Him. The face kicking guy. The pastor waves a hand, vaguely, dismissing it. Letting it go. "No, I mean— it'd be blasphemous to think otherwise, that we're higher or lower'n human. Beast or angel.
"Whistles. Bells an' whistles." By the way.
"Why s'blasphemous? We're…gentically dissimilar." It's hard to have intelligent conversation when you're drunk. Nevermind that Deckard feels he is perfectly capable despite the stumblings of his vocabulary. "I don't feel like I used to. And chimps…chimps missed the boat by…I dunno. One percent? Is…it one percent?" He swallows; his brows tilt, too tired to manage a proper knit to echo his confusion on the matter. "Anyway you don't hear them complaining. Fuck, they can't even talk."
Glass balanced unwisely on the cushion at his side, Deckard uses his freed up hand to drag the remote control out from under his back so that he can turn the TV off. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he works it out and drops the controller on the floor, where it clatter-thumps to a rest where it will probably remain for days. Or weeks. Who knows.
"Even if we're…even…point zero one percents off that's — who knows what's in there aside from lightning hands and seeing the future? Maybe we lose smell or…empathy or love. You don't know."
"And who's to say that's— that that's even up for debate?" Joseph argues, hands spreading apart, glass clenched precariously in one. "You know? I mean— we know ourselves, don't we. I didn't— I didn't change. It's those kinds've thoughts that— it's the reason everything is a mess. This irrational fear that we're— that every one've us is gonna be the next city destroyer, when, hell, human race's been destroyin' cities for a long time. It ain't new."
Drunken conviction is a lot like being zealous, and the line is blurred, in this case. Joseph raises a hand to rub against his brow for a moment, blinking as he temporarily loses not only his train of thought, but what rails it was meant to be on in the first place.
"An' I don't believe in evolution," he finally states. There. Black eyes narrow across the room. "What d'you mean you don't feel like you used to?" And his glass goes back up to sip from.
Deckard listens without interrupting but it's hard. It's harrrd not to interrupt. Save maybe with a quiet belch that he muffles partway out through flared nostrils anyway, glass retrieved and emptied down the back of his throat so that he can push the coolness of it up against his temple.
"I'm…not talking about destroying cities. I'm just…" trailing off into non-specific obscurity. "I dunno." He's either finishing the thought or moving onto the next, 'What d'you mean?' Either way it's unhelpful as far as answers go and the muzzy line of his glare sinks off sideways to watch things that aren't Joseph do things that aren't zealous and convicted.
"You don't have to believe in evolution. If God made us then he made the genes that make us. And they're different."
There is wavery concern in the gaze landed on Deckard. Dunno. No that— isn't a clear answer at all. Joseph's shoulders slump a little in a sort of inverted shrug, inspecting the bottom of his glass, the dregs of amber liquid twinkling up at him merrily. "Alright," he finally agrees, still looking down into the circle of glass in his hand. "Different. But still human. Mutations and— whatever, they. They don't mean we're not human, do they? I dunno. Never one for science."
He leans back into his chair, and swallows the last remainder of a sip. Hoooly. The world is spinny. "Human enough," Joseph seems to conclude. "I didn't change. Well." Well. Joseph doesn't immediately expand on the well, abruptly silencing as he studies his glass.
"Depends on your definition." Of what's 'human,' apparently. Deckard's slowing down, in thought and in action. He hasn't moved to refill his glass, and has fallen instead to staring blandly at his bleary grey reflection in the television. Which is off. The world doesn't quite spin until he closes his eyes and the room seems to turn his head for him. Carefully, the hand with the glass finds its way down the couch side to deposit it on the floor. The bottle is given similar treatment, careful that it isn't in immediate danger of falling over once it's settled.
"Pick whichever bed you want. I haven't…done anything weird in any of them. Weirder than mainstream. If that's too weird don't pick the first one."
Joseph nods mutely, taking a breath, releasing it, and setting the glass down on the table. He takes fumbling care to cap the lid of the bottle of whiskey. This bit is familiar too, actually, and it's not to do with the nausea that will likely hit him like a mack truck come morning. Er. Afternoon. Whatever. "Listen— " His voice sounds too loud for his ears, quite suddenly, having allowed some silence to fall between them. "Can you just— it would be great if you could not tell anyone— this part."
The other parts about being beaten in his own apartment are apparently fair game, but this part. He stands, arms out a little to balance himself. "Not the first one," Joseph mutters, unsure of what is mainstream-weird and not about to take any chances.
"I won't tell anyone," confirmed in a gruff, near grudging hush, Deckard flips his own bottle cap down onto the floor with little care for where it lands so long as it isn't poking him in the back anymore. All of the bedrooms — even the first one — seem really far away. He can already feel himself sinking deeper into the contours of the couch, shoulders slack while he watches Joseph hobble to his feet without falling over.
"Night, Sumter."
It's a dangerous journey, to walk from one side of the room to the other. Not a bad distraction, either. Joseph hands wander out to touch furniture and walls as he goes, as if to navigate himself, headed for the doorway, and then around it with a very tired, "Night, Deckard," without looking back.
The fumf sound of someone landing bodily face-first down into a bed and then the silence of sleep is all that follows, as the sun climbs higher in the sky.